


Grease Fire

by onionstories



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Invader Zim Week, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Zim is Defective (Invader Zim), izweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onionstories/pseuds/onionstories
Summary: White-hot grease burns are a hell of a thing, and Zim had to put his mission on hold to take care of himself, bandaging himself up in his medbay and dragging himself to bed, passing out in a painkiller-induced haze to the sound of his PAK whirring as it worked overtime to mend his wounds and fully repair his nerve endings. After a month of bedrest, things were going well— Zim had begun to walk around the inner base on his own, face screwed into a relatively neutral expression, because it was not befitting of a trained Irken soldier to hobble around his own base, whining in pain like a smeet!The aftermath of Foodcourtia.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 89





	Grease Fire

**Author's Note:**

> hehe angst machine go brrrrrrrrr

It was a commonly stated fact in the medical field that traumatic events don’t register in the brain until after the victim has escaped and the danger has passed.

Of course, this was also a commonly stated  _ human-only  _ medical fact, as the Irken language has no word for trauma. If it did, then perhaps Zim would not have been so caught off-guard, around a month after he returned from Foodcourtia.

And things were going so well— white-hot grease burns are a hell of a thing, and Zim had to put his mission on hold to take care of himself, bandaging himself up in his medbay and dragging himself to bed, passing out in a painkiller-induced haze to the sound of his PAK whirring as it worked overtime to mend his wounds and fully repair his nerve endings. After a month of bedrest, things were going  _ well—  _ Zim had begun to walk around the inner base on his own, face screwed into a relatively neutral expression, because it was not befitting of a  _ trained Irken soldier  _ to hobble around his own base, whining in pain like a  _ smeet!  _

He thought he was recovering well, thought he could finally get back to his mission, and once the pain dulled enough that Zim could bear walking around for more than a few minutes at a time, he marched his glorious self back to Skool— with the Foodcourtia incident in of itself, and his recovery time, Zim had neglected his mission long enough. 

And then it hit him.

Not immediately, but once he’d spent enough time in class, he realized he was on edge, antennae straining to stand up in the  _ alert  _ position from under his wig, and when he lifted up a hand to adjust it, he realize he had to dig his claws out from his own leg, which he was apparently gripping so hard it drew blood. His mind was swirling, body tense, as the rest of the world had tuned itself out from him. He felt as if there was a threat, right there, right  _ in that room,  _ a threat far, far worse than the  _ Dib,  _ someone that could actually ruin his entire life, take away everything he’s ever worked for, while not  _ killing  _ him but subjecting him to a fate worse than death as he was doomed to only dream of release, forever imprisoned, held captive, tortured— 

The bell rang, and with it, Zim deserted his mission once more.

* * *

_ Pathetic.  _

That’s what this was. Pathetic.

Here Zim was, in his resting chambers once again, cowering under the blankets like the weak, inferior young of the very planet he was sent to conquer, hiding from an invisible threat, a threat Zim was sure would find him in this very room, a threat that didn’t even  _ exist—  _ but it did to Zim, it was all too real to Zim, it was real and  _ right there  _ and it was going to  _ hurt him,  _ and it was a threat Zim could never even dream of winning against. 

Perhaps some rest would do Zim’s addled mind some good. Yes. Perhaps sleep would be good. 

Zim’s body ached as he screwed his eyes shut and tried to go to sleep, antennae stiff and alert and body too tense to relax enough to let him drift off. He could feel his PAK legs in their shell, poised and ready and practically begging to come out and lash out at the invisible  _ something  _ that was plaguing him. His eyes wanted to snap open, his arms wanted to throw the covers off himself, in order to see his resting chambers better, to see any threats, but Zim used all his willpower to keep himself in his current position— his night clothes were soft and sheer, but even it brushing against the healing burns caused his wounds to feel sore, and Zim didn’t want to  _ look  _ at himself and see perfect, unblemished skin, marred by healing wounds that Zim wasn’t entirely sure wouldn’t scar. He’d always carried his unblemished skin with pride; while Irken soldiers were expected to scar in battle, an Irken soldier with less scars meant a soldier who was very skilled in not being hit, skilled in evading dangers, skilled in keeping themselves alive at all costs. 

Zim always loved how even back in his Elite days, with the harsh combat training, he’d avoided being hit enough to not scar, and his skill had followed him into Invader training. His short stature had forced him to do extra to prove himself, to prove his worth as an Invader, as an  _ Irken,  _ but at least his short stature meant a smaller target, and a lighter frame, good for dodging and weaving and expertly avoiding enemy fire. 

And for what? To be bested by a  _ Frylord,  _ on  _ Foodcourtia,  _ the back-alley slums of the Empire? It was a disgrace of the highest caliber, for a skilled Invader such as himself to be held prisoner on the very planet that was the Empire’s disgrace. Of course Foodcourtia was  _ important,  _ per se, but the living conditions were abysmal— it was a  _ drone’s planet,  _ through and through, a place where the lowest of the low eventually found themselves in, the short, the ugly, the  _ useless,  _ scrambling for crappy jobs to afford crappy living situations, five or six being crammed into one apartment at a time— once an Irken was on Foodcourtia, it cemented their status as  _ lesser,  _ as  _ worthless,  _ the discarded unusables of the Empire, and the thought of being stuck there until he expired was more painful to Zim than any grease burns ever would be. 

* * *

It had been hours before Zim was able to sleep, and he awoke on Foodcourtia, in his old, tiny room, wearing his disgusting, too-big-for-him Drone’s uniform, exhaustion seeping into his very bones, but not the  _ good  _ exhaustion he’d felt after an eventful day of combat training; this exhaustion made him want to topple where he stood and never get up again, made him want to get right back in bed and give up on everything he’d ever cared about, made him want to— 

_ Want to—  _

_ But he couldn’t say THAT, now could he?  _

What a disgrace.

A disgraceful little drone on a disgraceful little planet thinking disgraceful little thoughts— what would the Tallest say? 

And suddenly they were there, looking at him,  _ staring  _ at him, towering over him, far taller than Zim remembered them being, far taller than any Irken had ever been, and Zim had to shout as loud as he could, shout so loud that it tore his throat to ribbons, saying that this was a  _ mistake,  _ he was  _ ZIM,  _ he was being kept unjustly on Foodcourtia, help him,  _ help him, he had a mission to get back to, My Tallest, he needed to get back to Earth, to his mission, to please them, to please everyone, so everyone could see how amazing Zim was, yes, so very amazing so very, very amazing, My Tallest, won’t you please fix this?  _

And the Tallest had stared at him, red and purple eyes narrowed to slits, and suddenly Zim was burning, burning hot, plunged back into that vat of  _ grease,  _ nerve endings sizzling to bits as he cried out for someone,  _ anyone,  _ to help him, and as he burned and burned he heard the voices of his Tallest, saying that  _ Invaders need no one, if he was a good one he’d be able to get out of it himself, if he was an Invader at all he wouldn’t even be there, but he’s not, was he, but he has to be, he was Zim, if he was no Invader, then what was he? A food service drone? Was all his hard work for nothing? Nothing? Nothing? Did he claw himself to the top so fervently he broke and bled for nothing? Did he spend his nights desperately fine-tuning his combat skills, his stealth skills, for NOTHING? And what of the time he paid two other fellow Elites, or fellow Drones, or fellow whoever, Zim doesn’t remember, to grab his wrists and ankles and PULL, because maybe if they pulled hard enough they’d make him taller, just a little taller, a little was all he needed, because maybe if he was tall enough or maybe if he was skilled enough or maybe if he was self-sufficient enough, _

_ Tallest Miyuki would—  _

_ Tallest Spork would—  _

_ Tallest Red and Purple would—  _

_ See. _

_ They’d see, wouldn’t they? _

_ Eventually. _

_ Zim just had to work harder.  _

_ Be better.  _

_ Earn it.  _

_ Earn life. _

_ But he didn’t, did he? _

_ The Tallest graciously gave him a chance. A planet. _

_ But they hadn’t, had they? _

_ It was a joke.  _

_ To get rid of him. _

_ He knew. _

_ Invaders are vigilant.  _

_ Invaders pay attention to their surroundings. To the people that surround them. _

_ Invaders never— NEVER— take anything at face value. _

_ Zim was not stupid, despite what his Tallest— what everyone— believed.  _

_ He was not stupid. _

_ But perhaps if he endured, they'd see. _

_ Endured the acid rain. _

_ Endured the threat of exposure.  _

_ Endured the ridicule. _

_ Endured the sinking, sinking feeling that, if he was to be captured, nobody would come for him. Nobody would care that his reports had stopped. Nobody would miss him enough to send soldiers after him. Nobody would release him from his torture.  _

_ If perhaps he endured for long enough, they’d see. He’d prevail despite everything and the Tallest would see. They’d say they were wrong about Zim, that Zim was good, that Zim was mighty, that Zim was useful, despite the defects.  _

_ But but but but but but but here he was on Foodcourtia. Where they put him. Where they wouldn’t come.  _

_ Zim screamed and screamed and screamed and couldn’t be heard. Nobody looked his way.  _

_ He was exhausted. _

_ So tired. _

_ He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t escape like last time. Like last-last time. He was trapped. Anchored there. Forced in the hole he’d tried desperately to escape.  _

_ And nobody would come. _

_ Nobody would care enough to come.  _

_ They’d all sit and laugh as Zim danced and cried and tried to run, and they’d laugh at his screams, laugh at his torment, laugh at his utter desperation to BE something, just as they always had, just as they always would do, no matter what, no matter what Zim did, no matter if he took over a schmillion planets, they would still laugh, because he was Zim and he was hated for reasons he couldn’t comprehend.  _

_ And they were telling him to give in, give into his disgraceful thoughts, it was the one good thing he would ever do for the Empire, his only worthwhile contribution, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop a PAK leg shooting out and to his front, poised to strike, poised to eliminate the worst thing that had ever happened to Zim’s glorious empire—  _

And alarms blared and Zim’s eyes shot open, frantically looking around for any intruders, until he realized that he’d flung the covers off of himself in his fitful, restless sleep, and that one of his PAK legs was out, poised and ready to strike, ready to spear him right through his chest and through the PAK itself, damaging both  _ it  _ and  _ him  _ beyond any hope of repair. 

_ “What in the fresh Hell was THAT, Sir?”  _ Computer had asked, and Zim couldn’t even think to ask where he learned  _ that  _ kind of language, before he leaned forward and retched, bile stinging his throat and  _ something-else-he-wasn’t-sure-what  _ stinging his eyes and residual pain stinging the rest of him, and when was the last time he’d really eaten? Surely this was too much bile to be coming out at once. Surely there had to be some kind of mistake here.

_ There was. And Zim knew who it was.  _

He felt weak once he was finally done, shakily lying back down on his bed and collecting himself, taking deep breaths as his PAK leg slowly sheathed itself. Everything hurt, his head swam, he could barely remember what even happened, but it was for the best, wasn’t it? His PAK leg just malfunctioned, just another defect on top of schmillions of other defects, minor defects, just minor little glitches, nothing to label him as  _ a defective,  _ nothing bad enough to justify leaving him to rot on Foodcourtia, nothing that would make the Tallest never want to see him again, never bother to come for him, of course the only reason they didn’t come was because Gir didn’t call them correctly, that had to be it, right?

_ “Sir?”  _ Computer asked again, trying to get his attention. He didn’t like the way his master shook and whimpered, although it was miles better than all the screaming. Anything was better than the screaming, but still his master was distressed.  _ “Sir, what happened?”  _

“Oh, C-Computer…” Zim managed to choke out, as he blinked and his eyes refocused, and his hands reached to pull the covers back onto his trembling frame, almost on autopilot, “Zim has… no idea what you are talking about.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope u liked it giv me comments
> 
> [my tumblr](https://irkenheretic.tumblr.com)  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/irkenheretic)
> 
> sidenote i post zadr so if u have problems with that here is ur warning


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